Cowboys and Angels
by Metal Health
Summary: A streetwise city girl and a rough-and-tumble redneck try to find something they lost even before the apocalyse; their last shred of humanity. Rated for language and zombie-licious gore. Daryl/OC
1. Chapter 1

I guess we all have our "day one" stories, our own personal accounts of how and when we realized that the world had just gone to hell. One day we woke up and went about our mundane routines, cleaned our ears and popped that pesky zit, not realizing that the world we woke up in was so horribly different than the one we bid goodnight. So picture, if you will…

An ambulance wails at drivers who act temporarily frozen by the sudden approach of flashing red lights. The driver is a young EMT, and a bit of a cowboy behind the wheel. I suppose I'll dispense with the name since in a few minutes you'll see it doesn't matter anyway, but boy he could drive. When both lanes of traffic clog tight, he jumps a median. My white-knuckled admonishments are lost under the high-pitched siren and heavy metal on the stereo. He says it pumped him up during convoy ops in Iraq. The way he drives, I wonder if the road is littered with anti-tank mines.

We were responding to a delightfully ambiguous report of "sick person", which has so far included everything from cardiac arrest to "gramma can't poop". At the scene we found three police cars lined up outside one of the newer residential complexes. The first car in line was rocking severely, and three policemen huddled around the rear passenger window. A young officer approached us, eyes wide.

"Man, I don't know what's going on. I just got off duty, I just washed all the puke outta the back seat from that crackhead-"

My partner bristled.

"The one that bit our girl?"

We had just transported a pretty blonde teenager who had a chunk of her cheek and lower lip ripped off. Nasty, nasty stuff.

"Yeah," the cop says, "I was on my way home and this crazy bitch runs into the road and jumps into my backseat!"

"Looks like she wants out" I said. She was thrashing around violently and spitting blood exorcist-style across the windows.

"Aw come on!" moaned the cop.

A potbellied sergeant thoughtfully twirled a sucker in his mouth. "Ever had a bird fly into your house and freak out, and you're like 'well if you'd just hold still I'd let you out?"

The woman pressed her face to the glass and stared at me. She had the wild expression of a rabid animal in a trap, she snarled and spit and pounded the glass.

"Y'all are gonna have a hella time loading her up"

I put my hands up. "Hang on, hold the phone. We're gonna do what-what?"

"Well y'all are taking her to the hospital, ain't ya?"

"Well right now she's kind of in a…enclosed environment. I don't think we should let her out, do you?"

"Y'all are an ambulance. Get her out of the car."

"She's not even going to notice those lousy Velcro restraints we have. You have cuffs, you get her out."

The woman started to slam her head against the glass until it spidered. The pot-bellied cop threw his sucker down.

Ever have one of those moments that feels like it's happening in slow motion but it all happens in a heartbeat?

I saw his fat, sticky paw on the door handle. By the time the rest of us could protest she had already busted out of the car with enough force to barrel his fat ass over and made a clean leap to the young cop. He screamed when she tore into his neck with teeth and nails. A loud crack sent bloody, spongy bits bursting through her hair. I slid over to the injured cop and pulled her body off him while my partner ran back to the ambulance for the stretcher. I grabbed a trauma dressing out of our pack and pressed it hard against the wound. Severe hemorrhage is a game of beat-the-clock. When a major vein or artery is severed, they go into shock almost immediately. Their body tries to compensate for the sudden loss in volume by increasing the pulse and blood pressure, unfortunately that means that they bleed out faster and shock soon becomes irreversible. It only takes three minutes to die from blood loss.

Soon he is on the stretcher and we are in the back of the ambulance. I stick electrodes to his chest and abdomen, and his rapid heartbeat is translated into a neat row of digital blips on a cardiac monitor. While my partner sets up a bag of IV fluids I put a tourniquet on his arm and grab a needle. I don't see any obvious veins, a side effect of the blood loss. I can feel them though, round and springy under the skin in the crook of his elbow. Starting IVs is sometimes like spear fishing in the dark. I throw the harpoon.

I miss.

The dressing on his neck is nearly soaked through, and blood is starting to drip onto the floor. His moans and pleas are muffled by an oxygen mask. I fish the needle around under the skin, just a bit until I feel the "pop" of puncturing the vein wall. Soon IV fluid is running in a steady stream to replace lost blood, but it might be too little too late.

My partner wipes sweat out of his eyes. "You need anything else?"

"Just diesel fuel," I say, "get us out of here."

I manage to get a second IV placed in his other arm on the way. He is ashen pale, his skin should be cool and clammy with shock, but it is hot and glistening with sweat. Suddenly the steady series of beeps from my cardiac monitor is cut off and an alarm sounds. It shows me that his heart is no longer beating in an organized manner; it is just trembling in his chest and about to give out. His whole body jolts when I apply electricity to shock it back into a rhythm. Instead I get a flatline. As I place my hands on his chest to begin CPR, I hear my partner swear and the world turns upside down.

I woke up on the wall, which was now where the floor should have been. The interior lights are off, but by the alternating red and white flashes streaming through the window, I see we were overturned. The cab reeked of the metallic stink of blood. I always hated that smell, but at the time I didn't realize how used to it I would become. I call out to my partner, but he doesn't answer. My patient dangled lifeless from the stretcher, secured by the belts across his legs and torso. I crawled past him for the doors. My gloved hand slipped against the handles, slick with blood. Suddenly my leg was snatched from under me, and I look up and see the dead cop has hold of my foot. Lucky I'm partial to castoff combat boots. They lace up past the ankle, which stopped him from biting off a chunk of my tendon. I kicked him in the face and scrambled out.

The truck was totaled, and a dark puddle formed around the crushed drivers' side of the cab. I rushed to the cab but froze in my tracks when I saw my partner's neck bent at that grotesque angle. My radio was somewhere in the patient compartment, but so was crazy cop dude. I tried to flag down a state patrol vehicle but he just sped by. It was astounding how quickly the system collapsed under the weight of demand, how quickly the façade of civilization falls away when the proverbial spit hits the fan.

The situation went from bad, to worse, to completely psychotic. The National Guard set up a blockade around the city; no civilians in or out. Internet, radio and cell communication was reserved for military and emergency personnel, whatever first responders survived the initial outbreak were drafted into service and federalized. Fire, EMS and law enforcement were already decimated by that point, because who do you call when grandma's fever won't go down, or some stranger is ripping flesh off your child's arm?

It had one distinct advantage in that I was able to briefly contact my family. They live in a rural area outside Macon, way out in the sticks. It was the kind of place that you wouldn't find unless you already knew where you were going. I told them to hunker down and I would find a way out of the city and get there as soon as I could. I left out the part about the shoot-on-sight- policy for "deserters". I thought they would be safe as long as they were out of populated areas, but last I heard FEMA had set up relocation camps and the military was moving people from the outlying rural areas to the designated "safe zones". I think that's why the camps were overrun so quickly. There is no such thing as a safe zone, and you are a fool if you let yourself believe that anywhere is safe as long as the dead walk. That kind of thinking makes you complacent enough to deal with a highly contagious, rapid-kill disease by concentrating large populations in close proximity. And people went! Because the damn TV told them to! It was like lining up cattle for the cull


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So! I think I am getting the hang of posting to the site, if anyone notes any formatting hiccups please let me know. If you haven't heard the Dustin Lynch song from whence the title comes, give it a listen. Also, let's just be clear I own nothing but the OC. If I did own TWD, I would be too busy making naughty time with Mr. Reedus to write fanfiction.

It's hard to keep track of days anymore. Its days since I heard a voice that came from a living throat and days since I've seen a face that didn't want to eat mine. I am camping out on the side of the highway in a "borrowed" fire department SUV; out of gas, out of water and out of ideas. The road is blockaded with abandoned cars. Most are empty, some have fly infested corpses slumped over the steering wheel. There is a tiny one with gaping mouth and sunken cheeks strapped into a pink car seat. Did her parents abandon her or did they think they could fend off the dead until help arrived? I find whole families that just loaded up into the minivans and held each other while the dead clawed in. Every so often one will paste its gooey face against the inside of a window, pawing at the glass, forever trapped by the child locks. I was used to the sounds of the dead now. Oddly, it was the sounds of the living that startled me.

At first I just sat there and watched them like one of those stupid meat-puppets. An intact family unit is an extinct animal these days, but here's at least one, with some stragglers to boot. All piled into the RV like they're going on vacation or something. Grandpa's wearing an adorable little fishing hat, and the kids are stretching their legs and whining about potty breaks. It was unreal, almost to the point of fucking disturbing. I unlocked my door and fished a red crowbar/claw hammer device out of the back seat. Just in case grandpa's packing heat, you know? I slam the door a little harder than necessary to catch their attention.

I wave and shout to verify my alive-ness. "Going on vacation? I'm pretty sure Disneyland's closed."

As I draw closer, their suspicious stares make my big Miss America smile fall right off my face. A tall, dark haired man raises his arm in a "halt" gesture.

"That's close enough lady, hold it there."

"I've been accused of many things mister," I say obligingly, "But being a lady was never one of them."

"You bit?"

The growly voice came from right behind me. I turn my head slightly and meet the business end of what looks like a fucking crossbow. Three cheers for rednecks, right?

For a split second I almost made a comment about "wabbit season", but all that comes out is a squeaky "No."

"Lot of blood on ya." His voice was low and accusing.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a bread truck's rearview mirror. This was probably the first time in days I was aware of my own appearance. My once white work shirt was splattered with crusty, reddish-brown blotches, my skin is sticky and gritty with grime and sweat, and my hair was twisted into a tangled bird's nest to keep it off my face and neck. Unlike them, I fit in with the scenery. When I bent to rest the crowbar on the ground, the crossbow followed my every move. By now another man was approaching. I raised my hands.

"Look, it's not my blood." I make eye contact with crossbow guy. "It's not mine."

Our gazes fixed on each other; I unbutton the work shirt and slid it off. The white tank top underneath is still relatively clean in comparison, and blood-free.

"See?" I turn a little circle. "Nothing." Crossbow guy studies my arms and neck, but I reflexively bat his hands away when he reaches for the hem of my top. For a second his squinty warning glare makes me think I just dug my grave a little deeper, but he seems to relax a little.

Actually, everyone seemed to relax a little.

"Satisfied?" I huff.

"Almost." Crossbow guy swings his weapon over his shoulder but doesn't attempt to hide the fact that he's staring at my chest. I duck my head into his line of vision.

"Hey. Davy Crockett. I'm up here."

He raises a brow and turns on his heel. "That's what y'all think."

The other man gives him a reprimanding look, but he just shrugs. "Checkin' her for bites man." he says over his shoulder. "We just gone over this shit."

"Nice crowd you got here." I say, "Is he that nice to everyone he meets?"

"Pretty much." He hands me a warm bottle of water. "Rick Grimes, sheriff's deputy."

You see, this was back when we still carried our old titles around, before we fully realized that none of it mattered anymore. I guess we still hadn't come to terms with how completely and permanently altered the world was.

"Kate. Metro Atlanta EMS."

"You're a medic?"

I nod as I gulp down hot water. Rick glances at my vehicle.

"You got any supplies? Any medicine?"

I pour the remaining water in my hand and rinse my face while I considered my answer. Best keep it vague until I have a better idea who I'm dealing with.

"You want to swap Band-Aids for cigarettes?"

"Sorry, no one here smokes."

"Damnit."

"You're welcome to ride with us a ways, we could use your expertise. And there's safety in numbers, right?"

I look over his shoulder. The RV is belching smoke from under the hood, the dark haired 'roid monster was exchanging heated words with grandpa, and scary crossbow guy was busy looking scary.

"Sure…" I say, "safety in numbers." I thought about another night alone with my nightmares in the SUV, windows open barely enough to prevent suffocation in the hot, sticky nights, but also enough to let in mosquitoes and possibly meat-puppets. "Where are you headed?"

A little smile pulled his tired face. "Well Disneyland is definitely not an option anymore, so right now the plan is Fort Benning."

Metro command lost contact with Benning even before the communication blackout. It's a suicide mission, but conveniently headed in the direction I want to go.

"The kids will be so disappointed," I say with a wink. "My stuff's in the truck. Back in five!"

I guess I'll wait until I get to Macon before I tell him. "_Thanks for the lift and the food. By the way, Benning's a wasteland, and nowhere you're going will be any better off than where you've been. Good luck on the road." _ As if I am any better, hitchhiking back to a home that might not even exist anymore. As I hoisted my backpack over my shoulders I heard commotion among the others.

"Walkers!"


	3. Chapter 3

C3

"Almost done, just hold still."

I stitch up a deep laceration on a black man's arm, unfortunately without the benefit of anesthesia. He is swearing through clenched teeth, but keeps the wounded limb still so I work quickly and pay his pain little mind.

"This is nothing, big guy. You think this hurts? Once I had this guy get his arm stuck in a wood chipper, and the only way to get him out was to put the machine in reverse. Now that is a new kind of painful."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

I shrug as I snip the tail of the last knot.

"No offense lady, but your bedside manner really sucks."

"I know. Cool story though."

About this time, grandpa shows up to check on progress, and I tell him that the bleeding isn't nearly as significant a problem as infection, especially due to the creative but unsanitary cadaver camouflage provided by Scary Crossbow Dude. From this conversation I learned that grandpa's name was Dale, Crossbow Dude bore the comically country-fried name of Daryl, and there was not so much as an aspirin amongst the whole group. I let him have a few Ibuprofen to control pain, and spend the rest of a fruitless afternoon with Dale, searching car to car for medicine. The upside? I found cigarettes.

The next afternoon we found out that Rick's son was shot by a hunter. I'm going with Glenn and T-Dog to the farmhouse to assist the surgery, but I want to start T-Dog on the antibiotics first. I broke the capsules and poured the powder into some sterile water, and injected the solution into his IV fluids. With an infection this severe, I want the meds in the bloodstream as quickly as possible. My foot catches on the RV steps and I almost fall into Daryl.

"Hey, sorry," I say and quickly widen the gap.

"How's he lookin'?

"Better soon, thanks to you. Doxy's heavy-duty stuff, we'll be on our way to that farmhouse as soon as his IV drip is finished."

He nods, chewing on his fingernail.

"You a doctor or some shit?"

"Actually I'm a paramedic, or some shit," I say with a smile. He leaves but I call after him with a "Thank you."

He looks over his shoulder, almost curious.

"I think this is twice you've pulled his ass out of the fire, and in as many days."

He grunted. "'Least one of y'all is earning yer keep." It was sincere but he acted like he didn't believe me, as if I was mocking him.

My Dixon encounters were few in those days. One kid was missing and another was critical. You would think that parents would keep a closer eye on their kids, what with the apocalypse and all. For the most part, these people are comically inept at survival, and it would be funny if it wasn't so fucking sad. They didn't bring warm clothes or water, or as much as a can of bug spray. You know what they brought? Photo albums. The kid's handheld video games. I think they really thought they would just go camping until the whole walking dead thing just blew over.

Daryl was the exception. After we moved to the farm he continued to hunt for the little girl, leaving at first light and returning at dusk, usually with a catch of squirrel or rabbits but never with the kid. He seemed to enjoy playing the lone wolf, but always returned to check on the pack, ferocious in defending his territory. Of everyone, he was probably the one most capable of surviving this crazy shitstorm, with or without the rest of us. Though he sometimes acted like the latter was his preference, he always came back. Except for that one time he didn't.

I wake up to warm sunlight on my face. Casting off a quilt, I slid out of bed and softly pad to the window, quietly so as not to wake anyone. Outside, the dawn greets a lazy pastoral landscape. In oak-shaded pastures, horses lay bloated and motionless on their sides. Below the window the corpse of a hen is sprawled out, rotten and barely connected by thin black cords of flesh, its body trembling with the movement of insects. Downstairs in the kitchen a large pot is bubbling away on the stove. I lift the lid to stir the breakfast mash. After the cloud of steam evaporates, I can clearly see fingers, eyes, a tongue, and chunks of grey boiled meat floating in a thick black broth. I salt the stew and move it from the heat. My mother and sisters are sitting patiently around the table, grey-skinned and milky-eyed as I ladle a portion into each bowl.

I have the same dream every night. Details may change from night to night, but the premise is always the same. I've discovered I don't really need to sleep very much anymore. I unzip the opening to my tent and crawl out. Everyone is cocooned into their nylon shelters except Dale and Glenn, who have watch tonight, and Daryl, who didn't come back today. They say he'll come back in his own time, he always does. I wonder if they realize how royally fucked they would be if one day he didn't. I wander away from the camp to shake the debris from my tired brain. The nights are becoming cooler and more bearable, and tonight is clear and bright. I pull a cigarette and from a crumpled pack and light it, the cool breeze carries the smoke a way in hazy tendrils. I'm still at least 50 miles from home, but the others were not in much hurry to move on. They debated it every so often, but in reality it was in their best interests to stay. Me, on the other hand…

I spun around at the sound of movement behind me.

"Glenn?" No answer but the rustling of a tall palmetto thicket. "Glenn if this is revenge for my little gag, remember the prank war was your idea, and it was worth it to watch you—"

A meat puppet crawled out of the thicket. Everything from the torso down was missing; its entrails dragged behind it like squishy black streamers.

"—shit yourself."

As I back away it pulls itself along by its arms, and when it looks up at me I see its lower jaw is missing, but the grotesquely large tongue still dangles from its maw. It starts to make a noise but is silenced by a swift arrow. Daryl emerges from the tree line, weapon trained on me.

"I'm beginning to think this is just how people say hello where you come from."

Daryl lowered his crossbow. "Thought you was another walker."

"Not yet." I flick the cigarette into the grass and awkwardly stuff the map back in my pocket.

"The hell are you doing out here anyway?"

"Just a little trouble sleeping. Bad dream."

He scoffs. "The whole world's a bad fuckin' dream."

He has a point. He steps on the ghoul's head and retrieves his arrow, I cringe at the crunchy, gooey sound it makes. "Best to get 'em before they can make noise. It attracts others." He looks me over with a scowl. I know what he's thinking, and I feel like a dumbass. I should have known better than to come out here without a weapon. Thankfully he doesn't rub my face in my thoughtlessness. He just wipes the arrow on his pant leg and reloads.

"Sanitary." I say. "I hope you're not shooting our food with those."

"Let's go," he says. "Before we have any more company."

I have to walk quickly to keep up with his long, purposeful strides. My skin is a moist with perspiration, and the breeze sends chills across my body. I cross my arms over my chest and hurry behind Daryl. He looked back, annoyed.

"Hell, city girl, is that all you've got?" He gestured at my tank top. I started to say something, but he unbuttoned his shirt and threw it over my shoulders. The faded denim was soft and thin, but heavy with his scent.

"Oh…thanks."

He shifted his gaze, looking almost a little uncertain himself. "Yeah," he mumbles, "least now I don't have to listen to you bitch all the way back to camp with that annoying-ass accent." The roughness of his words is contradicted by the gentle way he tugs the shirt collar up around my neck. Satisfied, we start moving again.

Sorry, but my accent sounds funny?

"I'm from New York."

"Hell, a yankee?" He spun around and kicked some dirt at my feet. "I thought that stink was the walker."

"Burn the witch," I giggle.

"Thought I stepped in somethin'."

"Sorry, Davy Crockett, but from the smell of this shirt, it's probably you." A faint smile crossed his face and we moved on, but more slowly now. "I'm used to that reaction by now," I offered. "My mom always wanted to live in the country. After dad died she came down here with my sisters. I guess it was her way of looking for a new beginning."

"What about you?"

Daryl Dixon engaging in conversation? Usually if he so much as says hello you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

"I guess I just tagged along for the ride."

He nodded. The only sound now is the soft crunch of grass underfoot, and distant crickets and frogs. I want to prod him, I want to engage him, but the topic of family is not a good one these days. It only tends to dredge up grief.

"My momma died when I was born." He said. I was so surprised he volunteered that I almost forgot to summon the appropriate sympathetic expression. "Daddy took to the bottle, just me an' my brother Merle."

Merle and Daryl? At first I can practically hear banjos, but the saddened, thoughtful expression he wears makes me ashamed of the thought. He said no more, and this time I was satisfied to let it go.

Dale peers curiously at us from his perch atop the RV, I silently acknowledge him while Daryl and I head for the tents and vehicles circled around the dying glow of a fire.

"I guess you should tell him about the walker," I say. He is distracted, kicking dirt on the embers.

"Yeah. Well…git gone, city girl."

"Don't you want your shirt back?"

He considered for a moment. "Naw, keep it. Touched a yankee, I'd have to burn it anyhow."

I laugh softly and shake my head, and I think he might be wearing a real smile as he leaves.

"Sweet dreams to you too, Daryl."


	4. Chapter 4

Farm life can bite me. When Carl got hurt it was one thing, but I'm getting tired of playing doctor to the shaky community sprouting here at Happy-fucking-Acres.

I stab a pitchfork into a pile of hay and toss a heap over the pasture fence. Carl is nearby, reaching through the fence trying to entice a calf to come within nose-petting distance.

"Miss Kate?"

"What sweetie?"

"Do animals have souls?"

The wind kicks bits of straw into my hair and eyes while a cow stares vacantly. A thick cord of drool swings precariously from its mouth.

"All living things have souls," I say offhandedly.

"How can you tell?"

I sigh. Where the hell are his parents? "Because even animals can have feelings. They can be scared, sad...they can love us."

He stepped onto the first worn board and leaned thoughtfully against the fence.

"Do you think walkers still have souls?"

"No, they don't. What kind of question is that?"

He wilted a bit. "I dunno. Don't you think they look kinda sad?"

"They're not, kiddo. They move around like us, but they are just pretending to be us. They aren't us and we're not them. The part that used to make them people is…ahh…up in heaven now." I dismissively wave in an upward direction. "Those walkers are just big, empty…meat puppets."

The phrase originated in pre-fall Atlanta, after some Marines put on a little show involving decapitated heads and pop tunes. At the time I laughed so much I almost pissed myself; I didn't remember they used to be people too. But I realize now that they stopped being people for me a long time ago. At best, most of my patients were just symptoms and complaints. I referred to them as the neck pain in trauma room 3, breathing problems in exam room 1, and hypochondriac on 123 Dontgiveadamn Street. I shoveled another mound of hay over the fence and wondered where the hell my empathy went, and why I didn't miss it when it left.

I didn't have long to muse. A gunshot cracked the air. Near the house, a flock of birds took to the sky, frightened from their perches. I dropped the pitchfork.

"Carl, gimmie your hand."

We ran back to the farmhouse.

Glenn was running toward us, across the field. A couple yards away he paused and doubled over unsteadily with his hands on his knees.

"Glenn?" I shouted. "What's wrong? What the hell happened?"

He shook his head, struggling to catch his breath.

"Glenn!"

He straightened quickly and pointed at the house. The answer tumbles out in a single breath.

"Andrea shot Daryl."

He is lying in bed, eyes closed and breathing steadily. Covered in dirt and blood, I can see how she mistook him for a walker. He is probably going to be pissed when he finds out I cut his shirt off, but I can't lift his dead weight to undress him. Most of the wounds are minor, except the grazing shot that tears his scalp open and the wound that pierces his side through and through. Thankfully, there is little sign of shock. His pulse is strong though his blood pressure could use some improvement, and his taut abdomen is firm but from muscle, not the pressure of blood building up behind the abdominal wall. He doesn't respond to the sting of antiseptic in his wounds. For the first time since I have known him he looks vulnerable, and I hate it. I begin the lengthy process of mending his broken body.

I've never worked barehanded before, but all my gloves are gone. I'm not used to the sensation of the warm slickness of his blood running over my fingers as I sew his side. I fashion my sutures from Dale's nylon fishing line, and my needle has now been thrice recycled. The small diameter of the wound makes me wonder if this was inflicted by one of his walker-brain-covered arrows. My stomach knots at the thought, and I'm suddenly far more concerned for the fate of my patient.

Distracted, I pull he wound closed more forcefully than I mean to, and his muscles flinch in reflex.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," and for once I really am. "It's almost over," I reassure.

I place a hand on his chin to turn his head, allowing me a better view of his scalp. At my touch he winces and scowls, second nature to him.

"Nothing too terrible, but you hair probably won't look right for a few days. Any thoughts on that?"

Still no response, not even a change in his breathing. I sit at his side on the mattress and thread the needle.

"You know, I really used to love this stuff. When I was a rookie, I lived and breathed for medicine. Not that there was any gratitude in the job, and certainly no money. I did it because I cared. It was fun back then, you know?"

With the rich supply of veins spidering just under the surface of the head and face, scalp injuries always bleed worse than their true severity. I must have nicked one; scarlet begins to dribble through his hair. I press a piece of sponge against the wound and it slowly grows dark and fat.

"Sponges, that's what we turn into. All the fear, all the pain and grief, whether we know it or not we soak it up to spare our patients from it."

Once the bleeding stops, I discard the sponge in a metal dish and return to my work.

"After so long though, sponges just can't soak up anymore. You get so full, there's no room for the good stuff to get in."

I put a bit of clean gauze in the wound and lift his head to wrap it with bandage.

"I think you might have soaked up more than your share of misery and heartache. That's ok. Shit happens, you know? Just don't hold onto it so tightly that the good stuff can't get in too."

"Damn, city-girl," he drawls, "if you're gonna run your mouth the whole time, just shoot me _good _and put me outta my misery."

I'm so surprised by his "miraculous recovery" I drop his head on the pillow. He grunts in pain.

"T-Dog's right. You make a suck-ass nurse."

"How long have you been awake?"

He shrugs. "Couldn't wait to get my shirt off, huh?"

My gaze snaps from his face, to his chest, to the floor. I feel heat in my cheeks. "Well your pants are still on."

"I know, that's bullshit right there."

I can't believe I let this hayseed play me. "You faker. I should have given you a catheter."

He sits up slowly, clutching his side. His face is so close his breath falls warm on my lips, but his blue eyes are icy.

"Shoulda left me the hell alone, I was fine." He yanks the IV out of his arm and kicks the quilt away.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

He yanks a dirty, waterlogged rag doll from his belt loop and shakes it in my face. "Look, I got a little girl to find! She's out there right now, alone, woods crawlin' with walkers. Not that you'd know what it's like 'cause your skinny ass don't leave this fuckin' farm." He throws it at me; it bounces off my body and falls helplessly to the floor. "What kinda chances you think she's got while I'm tucked in bed, lickin' my wounds like a bitch?"

"What _**are**_ her chances without you Daryl? If you go back out there and get hurt again, or worse, what are her chances then? You think Shane is going to keep looking? You think Rick is going to hold them together much longer?"

I put my hand square in the middle of his chest and push him down, hard. It hurts and I know it.

"You're staying right here. In bed!"

He sulks and casts his eyes away. "You suck at talkin dirty too."

"You need to rest for a few days, at least until this puncture closes. That means no rag-dolling walkers for a few days." I wash his blood off my hands in a basin. "Carol will be up soon to bring you dinner."

No answer while I gather my supplies.

"Be pissed all you want Daryl. I bust my ass around here playing doctor to these people. Right now you're my responsibility. Mine. I'm taking care of you, its happening, fucking deal with it!"

He scoots under the sheets like a pouty kid. "Whatever."

I pick the doll off the floor and smooth its mussed hair. I want to tell him he's nothing like the person I thought he was when we met. I want to tell him that he's loyal, tough and brave, and that he doesn't have to prove shit to anyone because I see it, even if they don't. I want to say _**something**_.

Instead I just hand him the doll and pick up my tray. My embarrassment and I barely fit through the door together.

"Hey," he calls from the bed. My shoulders droop.

"What?"

"Thanks."

I nod and squeeze past Carol and her plate of food.


	5. Chapter 5

Ch5

We found Sophia, but not like we hoped, and I found myself lined up in a shooting gallery. After I felled my first, the rest was frighteningly easy. I squeezed my finger and a walker's head kicked back with a spray of black goo. I suddenly found myself hating them even more than usual. I could picture this pasty, diseased sack of meat scratching at my family's door; scratching at their flesh. I drop the motherfucker, and the one behind it, and I keep squeezing that trigger even after the chamber kicks back empty. It's Daryl that places a calm hand on my shaking wrist to lower the gun. Finally, the last one stumbled out.

He didn't stay to watch the earth close up over the tiny blanket that wrapped her. Instead he retreated to his private "Camp Dixon" at the edge of the property, finally dismissing himself from what could possibly be the very last of humanity. I decided to pay him a visit, against my better judgment and probably his wishes. I found him sitting by the crumbling remains of a stone wall, sharpening sticks.

I fold my arms across my chest. His hunter's instinct probably sensed my presence yards ago, but he doesn't acknowledge me. I sit a few feet away and prod him with a gentle "hey."

He glanced up but didn't say anything.

"How you doing?"

"Sweatin' my ass off. It's hotter than a fresh-fucked fox in a forest fire."

I nod solemnly. "I, uh…sorry, I just don't know what that means."

"Somethin' you need?" His tone is sharp, almost challenging.

I've dealt with death before. I've tried to soothe hysterical parents while shielding them from the torn, bloody mess behind the wheel of their teenager's car. I've held the hand of an old woman as she trembles silently, her husband lying stiff and pale in the bed they shared for fifty years. I managed to find some words of comfort then, I wonder if they sounded as trite as these words taste right now, even as they tumble out.

"I was just wondering…look, I know everything is really fucked up, but if you need anything or you wanna… I don't know, talk or whatever, you know where to find me."

And yes, I felt as stupid as that sounded.

"Yeah," Daryl mumbled, "or how 'bout we just take turns slamming my dick in a door?"

I bit my lip and got to my feet.

"Alright then, good talk."

"Saw a mess of catfish over in the river. Flatheads too, not them pussy-ass channel cats. Thought I'd go grab me some. Hell, you can come if ya want."

"Yeah," I said slowly. The closest I typically want to be to the great outdoors is watching the Discovery Channel. "I mean sure, I guess I can talk Dale into lending me his pole and stuff."

He stood up and shouldered his bow.

"Don't bother. We're doing this my way."

"What, right now?"

He shrugged. "Got somthin' better to do?"

He had a point. "Actually, this whole end of the world thing cleared my schedule right up."

We walked in silence to the river. Actually, he walked, I stumbled clumsily behind, tripping over plants and swatting bird-sized mosquitoes. He looked over his shoulder every so often to make sure I was still upright. The river finally stretches out just beyond a mess of brush, wide and stained with clay.

"I don't see any…fishing stuff."

"Nope." He rests his crossbow on the red riverbank.

"I don't see any fish either."

"Too hot," he says, kicking off his boots. "They're probably hidin' under them cypress roots."

"Gotcha. So how do we get them out?"

"Grab 'em," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Grab them? Do they have fucking _handles_ I don't know about?

"Seriously?"

He wades waist deep into the water. "Let's go, city girl!"

I slip off my shoes and carefully step down the steep bank. The dirt gives under my feet. He holds up a hand, I take it and slip beside him into the cool water. We wade toward the tangle of cypress roots, and there he sinks chest-deep, reaching into the dark crevices below the surface.

"I can feel him in there. Come _on_ you son'bitch."

He pulls his hunting knife from its place at his hip.

"Watch for walkers."

"What?"

He takes a breath, holds the knife between his teeth, and disappears under the murky surface. After a couple seconds the bubbles stop, and the surface is glassy and dark.

"Daryl?"

I reach blindly under the water. "Daryl!"

Suddenly he springs up from the water, wrestling a thrashing beast-fish up with him. His hands are clamped in its jaws and it's whipping wildly. He manages to free a hand and plunge the knife in its head, then throws the barely-wriggling fish to the shore.

"Oh my god, its huge! That's insane! You're insane!"

He wipes his wet hair from his face. "Your turn, girl."

"What? Oh no, I think you have a handle on-"

He takes my wrists and pulls my hands under water.

He winks. "Trust me."

He positions himself behind me, his body pressed against my back, rough hands guiding mine under the murky surface.

"Real slow now," he mumbles into my neck. "Just use your fingers."

"This would be kind of sexy if I wasn't using my fingers as fish bait."

"Best hope it's a fish. Snappin' turtles been known to hide in catfish holes, just ask my Uncle "Stumpy".

My fingers brush something firm and cool.

"I think I found it."

"Alright. Go down and pull him out."

It's jaws feel like they are lined with sandpaper and they snap shut hard. I instinctively try to snatch my hands out of the water, but the fish tugs them back down.

Daryl lets out a redneck holler. "Pull, pull!" I just manage to pull its head out of the water, he grabs it around the middle with one strong arm and stabs it through the skull with the other. We both haul it to the shore and I flop down beside it. In contrast, Daryl is proud and victorious, having conquered the river beast.

"That was nuts," I laugh.

"Good shit, in'it?"

Our wet clothes are sticking to us, giving off barely-visible steamy waves in the heat. I wring muddy water out of my hair. "Do me a favor…don't ever invite me fishing again."

"Looks like I got to pop your cherry."

"What?"

He points at my hands, and I glance down at my scraped and bleeding knuckles. He turns my hand over and inspects the injury approvingly.

"Congratulations. Ya ain't a virgin no more."

I laugh and shake my head. "I'll always remember you were my first."

He is wearing that tight, barely there smile that fades when he realizes hand has been wrapped around mine just a moment too long. It is replaced by a flash of almost fearful surprise when I lean into him. He stiffens and turns his face away, but I leave a kiss at the curve of his jaw and linger there. He cautiously turns his face toward me, stubble scratching my cheek. I pull back just a bit, now almost nose to nose, his warm breath again falling heavy on my lips. Hungry blue eyes dart down to my mouth.

"You sure this is a line you wanna cross?"

I exhale. I didn't realize I was holding my breath.

I close the gap. At first he's completely still and I'm afraid he'll pull away, but he slowly starts to kiss me back. He tests the edge of my parted lips with his tongue and I respond in kind, my hands moving up his chest and finally tangling in his mess of wet hair. His tongue slides roughly against mine. One of his hands rests on the back of my neck, holding me firmly against him, while the other creeps slowly up my thigh. His touch is white-hot. I moan softly into his mouth, he nibbles my lip and pulls away slightly.

"Damn," he half-whispers.

Agreed.

He crushes his lips against mine and the weight of his body slowly pushes me down to the warm red clay. His hand is slides up my hip, wanting but testing. I cover his hand with mine and slip it under my shirt, over my waist, up to my breast. He squeezes gently, I tilt my head back and draw a breath as his lips move down my neck.

It was hot and hungry, and too good to last. His head suddenly snaps up.

"Didja hear that?"

"What? Walkers?"

"Naw, sounds like a car."

"I guess the guys are back from town."

He buries his face in my neck and swears.

We walked back to camp at a respectable distance from each other. The fish dangling between us would make a believable alibi if not for the smirks and sidelong glances we exchanged. That is, until we saw what Rick and Glenn dragged home in the bed of Hershel's ford.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Back from long hiatus, and I apologize, but sometimes life gets in the way of important things, like writing about zombies!

Ch6

"Wait, wait, wait. What the fuck are we talking about here?"

Rick and Shane tried to abandon him to the countryside, but came back with him late this afternoon. He knows where we are, and that puts us all at risk.

Rick stiffened. "This is about the safety of the group."

It's not like he has anything to prove with me. From day one he has been the guy with the most sense, but right now he sounds more like Shane, and that frightens me.

"Rick, he's a kid! He's not one of those fucking meat bags! He's one of us!"

He holds my shoulders, his tone pleading and fatherly. "No, he's not!"

"He is if he has a pulse! Rick it's murder!"

Rick backs away and restlessly paces in a circle before he half-heartedly kicks at the grass. Just surviving this crazy new world is hard enough, but to have all these people look to you as the leader and protector too? He's getting pushed to the edge and ready to snap.

"I know that." he finally says, his voice ragged and resigned. "And I don't like it any more than you. But I'm going to do whatever it takes to protect my family, to protect this group. A couple months ago, I'd have called myself a son of a bitch for even letting it cross my mind…"

He trails off, squinting into the faraway tree line as if the answer would be hidden in the rustling pines. "I don't expect you to like it."

I sigh. "Then what do you want to hear?"

"That you understand that I'm trying to do what's right in a world where all the rules are flipped upside down. You always backed me up before."

I lay a hand on his arm. "I have never, ever questioned your intentions. But this isn't right. There's gotta be another answer. I mean, make him dig toilets or burn walkers for all I care!"

A yelp of pain broke my impassioned plea.

"That sounded like it came from the barn," I said.

Rick looked at the barn, then at the dirt.

"Rick, where is Randall?"

"In the barn." He said it firmly, almost coldly. As if trying to assure himself more than me. "Him and Daryl are having a serious discussion."

Oh, not good.

Another yelp sends me sprinting to the barn. I pound the rickety door with my fist.

"Daryl?"

I can hear the dull fleshy sound of someone getting thumped hard.

"Daryl!"

I kick the door a couple times, the rotten wood groans but holds fast. I put my ear to the wall and I can hear the shouting, the impact of a body against a wall, someone begging and wailing.

"Daryl stop!"

Suddenly it is quiet, so quiet it shocks me for a moment. I slowly put my ear to the wall, but the door swings wide and knocks me on my ass. Daryl stops midstride, as if he's shocked to see me. I looked past him at the bleeding mess, tied hand and foot even though his injured leg is nearly useless. It was one of the more thorough ass-kickings I have seen, and I've seen quite a few. I could barely recognize the kid I had been mending all week. I clenched a fist in the dirt.

"What did you do?" I whispered. Daryl didn't answer, and that only enraged me further. He extended a hand to help me up.

"I said what the fuck did you do?" I threw a fistful of dirt at him, and pelted a small rock at him for good measure. He swore a little and grabbed my wrist to heave me to my feet.

"Don't fucking touch me!" I shouted, wriggling out of his grip. "Is this what you are? A thug? A fucking leg-breaker? Is that what you want to be, you son of a bitch? Is that all you're fucking good for?"

"Shut your damn mouth woman, ya don't even know what you're talking about."

"Or what? You're going to shut it for me?" My body shook with rage as I squared off with him. He wasn't about to take my dare, but anger seethed in his squinty gaze. "You want to be an animal? Go live out in the woods," I spat.

In a swift motion he sweeps me behind him and I stumble ass first into the dark, musty barn. Picking myself up from the dirt and old manure, I'm shouting the most venomous insults I can muster but it doesn't stop the lump forming in my throat. He doesn't say anything, just glares at me hatefully. Part of me wants to punch him right in the nose, the other wants to grab him and cry. He could be better. He _is_ better. Why is he choosing to be this instead? Is this all you fucking know how to be?

Randall whimpers, I kneel beside him and turn him over. Poor kid. Rick says he was running with a rough crowd, but who's to say that under different circumstances that wouldn't be us? Are we so special that we could never become just like them? After all, we just had our first torture session. I'd say we're off to a good start.

I was expressly forbidden from untying his hands for any reason, so that evening I fed him. It's not like I felt like being around the group much right now anyway. Andrea and I had a nasty argument since she practically put the razor in Beth's hand for a half-assed suicide attempt. Then there is "The Randall Situation"…Dale and I seem to be the only ones openly against killing him. Lori wants to play the loving, supportive wife, you can't expect Carol to voice an opinion…it seems like everyone is just going to passively go along with it, as if not openly making a choice will make them not responsible for what will inevitably happen…then there's Daryl…

"I don't have long, do I?"

He's looking up at me through swollen eyes. I fumble with the spoon, pushing mashed potatoes around the plate.

"Your wounds aren't that severe, you're young and healthy, you should recover completely."

I know what he means.

"They're gonna kill me, aren't they?"

I bite my lip. "I promise I'm going to do everything I can to see that doesn't happen."

"I wonder if it would be better if you didn't."

I take the long way back to the house, a footpath that passes by the horse stable. Its drizzling rain, but I don't really care. I'm absently looking at the ground ahead of me, too wrapped up in my thoughts to notice the figure lurking in the shadows of the stable until he steps out in front of me. It's Daryl, still looking slightly more pissed off than usual. I try to sidestep around him but he blocks me.

"It's late Daryl, I'm tired. What's the problem?"

"What's my problem?" He puts his finger in my face. "What's your goddamn problem?"

"I think you know."

I step around him but he stays on my heels.

"Well you need to fuckin' get over it!"

"What the hell difference does it make to you?"

He catches up to me quickly, grabs my shoulder and pushes my back against the stable.

"Someone's got to do the unpleasant shit around here. Who's that gonna be? I don't see your skinny ass volunteerin'."

I avoid eye contact, looking off over his shoulder. "You just don't get it, do you?"

He grabs my chin roughly in his calloused hands, forcing me to look right at him. "No! You don't fuckin' get it!" he yells. "He gets back to his people, he's gonna bring them back here! They're gonna kill anybody who fights back, and then a couple of 'em is gonna grab you by the fuckin' hair…"

He twisted my messy ponytail in his fist and pulled my head back sharply for emphasis.

"And they're gonna make you wish you were dead," he hissed in my ear.

He let go suddenly and we locked eyes. I shivered, but not from the chill of the rain dripping down my neck. I couldn't tell what was coming next. For the first time since that day on the interstate, I was afraid of him.

He lowered his voice. "You want to know the only reason I even give a shit?"

I didn't feel like daring him now. "Why?"

"Cause for someone to get to you, they'd first better put a bullet between my eyes."

For a second I felt like he punched me in the gut. I shut my eyes and shook my head a little, just out of confusion, but he must have taken it as rejection because he stiffened and pulled away. I grabbed his wrist and pulled him back, throwing my arms around his neck and pressing my body to his.

"You piss me off so much," I mumbled into his neck.

I feel his warm breath in my hair as he puts his strong arms around my waist. "Yeah, you ain't been nothing but a pain in my ass too."

"I don't give a fuck what anyone else ever told you or what anyone ever made you believe. You don't have shit to prove. You can choose what kind of man you want to be." I leaned back to look into his eyes. "I just wish you would choose to be the man I know you are."

I brush his scruffy hair out of his eyes and our lips meet. The dam we cracked on the riverbank finally breaks and a hungry passion washes over us. One of his hands cradles my neck while his tongue slides into my mouth, the other explores every curve of my body. I let out a soft whimper when I feel his hand slip between my legs, it was the only encouragement he needed. He guides me inside the stable and we tumble onto a pile of hay, laying side by side and desperately tugging each others clothes off. He snaps my bra open with ease as I run my hands over his smooth chest and stomach, and loosens my barrette so my long hair falls around my breasts. When I tug at his belt, he fishes a wrapper out of his pocket.

A mischievous smile creeps over my face. "Did you steal that from Glen?"

"Hate it for him, kid needs to get laid any chance he can get."

I giggle and he presses his lips against mine again, and finally free of the last of our clothes, he covers me with his body. He gently nibbles my neck while his rough hand slides across my breasts, down my side, over my hips, then slowly travels between my thighs…I draw a sharp breath and twist my legs around his, instinctively pressing my hips into him. He makes a sound like a soft growl and it's too much for either of us.

For a short blissful while, the ugly world disappeared. I didn't think about the possibility of being found, not even by a walker. I just breathed deeply of his scent and savored his touch, and we got lost in this sweet, stolen moment, subconsciously knowing that this first time might also be the last. I didn't completely understand what I was feeling for Daryl, but damnit I felt _something_, and that proves that I'm alive! The dead just have their rotten, half-alive brains, but I have a _heart_, and it still feels. _We're still alive_.

I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of far-off thunder. Uneasy, I curled in a little more tightly to Daryl's chest.

"You 'wake?" he asked.

"Yeah." As I stretched he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, lazily stroking my skin with his thumb. Another roll of thunder echoed in the distance.

"Sounds like a bad storm coming, huh?"

"Yeah," he yawned. He rested his chin on top of my head. "Don't worry girl, I got ya."

I believed him too, and I finally slept without nightmares.


End file.
